


Keep it up

by chaos_monkey



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Come as Lube, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Getting Together, Gratuitous Smut, Inappropriate use of Axii, Juiced-up Geralt, M/M, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spit As Lube, just... so much come, of sorts, the incubus made them do it, with a dash of Feels for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25904338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_monkey/pseuds/chaos_monkey
Summary: After an incubus hunt gone slightly wrong, Jaskier finds Geralt in need of a little... help.Now if only he could last long enough to do the job right.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 694





	Keep it up

**Author's Note:**

> There are some consent issues in this, but rest assured they're both genuinely into it (they've just been avoiding dealing with their attraction for one another like the love-sick idiots they are).

Jaskier paced. 

Geralt _still_ hadn’t come back to where he had been, for once, waiting patiently— well, mostly patiently, anyway— for the witcher to rejoin him and Roach after what was supposed to be a quick and easy job taking out a few incubus. 

Incubuses. Incubi? 

Irritably shaking his head, Jaskier stopped his pacing to peer into the trees again with a frown, his ears straining— but all he heard was the breeze rustling through the leaves and Roach stamping softly beside him with a snort that seemed to mirror Jaskier’s own worried impatience. The horse seemed about as unsettled as Jaskier was at this point, in all honesty, and Jaskier gave her a considering look. He always had suspected there was more to Roach than was normal for a horse. 

“What do you think?” 

Roach cocked her head and twitched an ear; then whickered and shook her head. 

“You’re right. Come on, girl. Let’s go find our witcher, shall we?” Jaskier said with a jauntiness that sounded strained and forced, even to his own ears. 

Not entirely to his surprise, Roach turned and led the way deeper into the forest. Jaskier followed along behind her, fretting. Typical that the one time he actually listened and didn’t sneak after Geralt to watch was the time Geralt bloody well disappeared on him. The only reason Jaskier _hadn’t_ followed him this time was because, well… danger was one thing, but he didn’t entirely trust what effect being in the vicinity of both Geralt and an incubus might have on his self-control where the witcher was concerned. Wounds healed, but Jaskier really did not relish the prospect of looking like an utter fool by throwing himself bodily at the thrice-blasted witcher who was, really, unfairly and cluelessly good-looking. The fact that Geralt hardly even seemed to be _aware_ of his own appeal was a trial in itself, what with the way the witcher shamelessly pranced about— or, well, stomped about— half naked at the slightest provocation, without any sort of consideration for his long-suffering and frequently touch-deprived traveling companion— 

Jaskier’s internal tirade, which had done well in keeping him from acknowledging the sour twist of worry getting tighter and tighter in his stomach the farther he and Roach walked with no sign of Geralt, was cut short when there was, quite suddenly, more than just a sign of Geralt. The witcher himself was there, leaning forward against a tree, braced on one hand with his head down and his swords and armour discarded on the ground around him. 

“Oh thank the gods, Geralt,” Jaskier burst out, hurrying forward past Roach with a rush of tentative relief. “Are you alright? We were— I was worried when— oh. Uh. Geralt? What- what are you…?” 

Jaskier stumbled to a halt just a few paces away from the witcher, staring, feeling sudden and powerful heat rising in his face. Geralt had his leather trousers unlaced and his cock out, stiff and flushed an angry red and gripped so tightly in his other hand that Jaskier didn’t know how he wasn’t hurting himself. 

And when he finally looked up and met Jaskier’s stunned gaze, it was through pure black eyes, stark against bone white skin spiderwebbed with veins of charcoal. 

“ _Jaskier—_ ” His name was practically growled through tightly gritted teeth, and Jaskier couldn’t help but notice the way Geralt’s hips jerked forward when he said it; then felt immediately guilty at the arousal that tightened sharply in his own stomach at the sight. “I need— don’t— I… _fuck._ ” Geralt shuddered and took a deep breath. “Wasn’t just a couple. Whole fucking _nest_ of the bastards. Got them, but…” 

The witcher trailed off into a low groan, panting shakily, and Jaskier’s breath hitched as Geralt’s hand started pumping slowly up and down the length of his cock. He should look away, Jaskier _knew_ he should look away, but he kept staring, his own breath coming fast and shallow, his pulse thudding loudly enough in his ears that he had trouble making out Geralt’s hoarse voice when the witcher continued talking through still-gritted teeth. 

“I’ll be fine. It’ll just… take awhile before it— _nngh—_ ” 

Jaskier might possibly have let out a pathetic whimper; but he didn’t think Geralt heard him, the sound drowned out by the strangled grunt Geralt made as he spilled without warning, thick spurts of come hitting the tree he was leaning on and dripping from the tip of his cock onto the ground at his feet. Though he hadn’t noticed it before, Jaskier realized rather abruptly that the bark and the dirt both were already glistening with a generous amount of wet streaks and spatters, and sweet Melitele’s tits that meant Geralt had already come at least once before Jaskier had shown up— _multiple_ times, from the looks of things— and Jaskier could not think about that right now because he just might lose his mind if he did. 

“Can I— is there anything I can do to help?” Jaskier finally stammered, guiltily wrenching his eyes away from Geralt’s come-slick fist, which was _still_ stroking up and down the length of the witcher’s cock, and— Geralt groaned and shuddered and Jaskier realized what _exactly_ he had just said. He froze, momentarily tongue-tied, the only sounds that of Geralt’s laboured breathing and the slick sound of his hand pumping faster. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I would never take advantage— Do you have a potion or something, I can fetch it, Roach is just over there, just tell me what to do and—” 

“Jaskier, either fuck me or fuck off, but don’t just _fucking stand there!”_ Geralt snarled. 

A split second later he bit out another guttural moan, his hips bucking and fresh come painting the tree trunk again, and Jaskier _trembled_ on his feet, fisting his hands on his thighs in attempt to hold back from doing something he might regret. His own cock had taken full notice of events and was throbbing insistently in his trousers, already achingly hard and leaking into his smallclothes and making it increasingly difficult to think at all rationally. 

“Would that… would that actually help?” he managed, his voice unsteady and strained. 

“Yes,” Geralt gritted, and _oh sweet hellfire_ he was fucking into his own hand now, hips rocking in jerky, desperate, uncoordinated motions. “Make it… quicker. Easier. …Fuck, _please._ ” 

The sheer, gravelly need in Geralt’s voice instantly shattered any remaining shreds of Jaskier’s tattered self-control. Hoping distantly but fervently that he wouldn’t hate himself for it later; and more importantly, that _Geralt_ was still aware enough of what he was asking for to not hate him for it later either, Jaskier stumbled forward, yanking open the ties of his trousers with shaky hands and already panting. 

He had just positioned himself behind Geralt and tugged the witcher’s leather trousers down to bare his arse when he belatedly remembered they’d need something to ease the way, and everything useful was still in Roach’s saddlebags. “Shit— wait, I’m sorry, let me get oil or—” 

“ _Now,_ ” Geralt snapped, bending forward and pushing his arse back into Jaskier’s crotch, his voice the epitome of desperation. 

Swearing under his breath as he shoved the front of his own trousers down, Jaskier spat in his hand and got his cock as wet as he could with it— the almost embarrassingly copious amount of precome he was already dripping with helped as well— then lined himself up, hardly able to breathe and still not entirely convinced this was _actually_ happening. Before he could even press forward, Geralt pushed backwards onto him, the witcher’s broad back arching and his arm still pumping steadily as he impaled himself slowly on Jaskier’s cock with a deep groan. 

He was so bloody tight it was actually on the edge of painful, and Jaskier had to widen his stance and plant his feet, leaning into it so he wouldn’t just get pushed backwards. “Fucking _hells,_ Geralt… Are you _sure—_ ” 

_Are you sure it won’t hurt you,_ is what he intended to say, but it turned into a garbled string of heartfelt curses instead when Geralt shuddered and clenched even tighter and came on his cock with a loud, strangled grunt. The grunt turned into a series of panting gasps while Geralt rocked back and forth on him in a needy little bouncing motion; followed by Geralt shoving back onto him further still with a desperate throaty sound that Jaskier would have called a plaintive whine if he didn’t know Geralt would have his head for even thinking it— though honestly, he had heard the witcher make less noise when getting _stabbed—_ and he could not have held back any longer at that point had he wanted to. 

Gripping Geralt’s hips, Jaskier finally started driving into that exquisitely tight heat with a shaky groan. There wasn’t enough of a glide to really get going properly, not with Geralt’s arse like a godsdamned vise around his cock; but Jaskier did what he could, staying deep and fucking Geralt with short, hard, choppy thrusts. 

Geralt didn’t stop _moaning,_ his arm jerking almost frantically under himself while he panted and growled at Jaskier to give it to him _faster harder more;_ and as if that wasn’t enough to send Jaskier’s arousal through the roof, Geralt came on him twice more in quick succession, without warning. Both times it nearly sent Jaskier over the edge himself, and though he hadn’t been going long at all, he finally had to stop again, already trembling and twitching with the effort of holding back. 

“Geralt— fuck, I’m not gonna last much longer like this, I—” 

“Don’t fucking _stop,_ bard,” Geralt somehow managed to simultaneously growl and _whimper,_ pushing backwards again. “Jaskier, _please._ ” 

Jaskier groaned as his cock inched deeper. “You have no idea how much it kills me to ask this,” he panted, “but… are you anywhere _near_ to having had enough?” 

Geralt just shook his head with a wordless grunt, his hips shifting and a tremor running through him. 

“ _Damn_ it.” Jaskier started rolling his hips slowly again with another groan, shuddering and inwardly cursing every god he’d ever heard of as he tried, futilely, to calm himself down enough to keep going. What he wouldn’t give to be able to fuck Geralt all the way through this and out the other side… but he was only human, he didn’t have the benefit of witcher stamina and potions and incubus magic— 

Magic. 

“Axii me,” Jaskier grunted, picking up the pace again, and _sweet mother of sin,_ Geralt really was going to be the death of him. The man had _no_ right to feel so bloody fantastic. 

Geralt shuddered under his hands, back arching under his sweat-soaked black shirt. “What— no, I can’t… do that to you.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, as sternly as he could manage given the circumstances, “I’m about to come whether I like it or not, there’s nothing I can do about that except _stop_ fucking you—” Geralt whined again, a hoarse, needy sound that almost made Jaskier go off then and there, his arousal burning unbearably hotter in his gut with every thrust of his hips— “unless _you_ want to do something about it. If you want more then hurry up and make it so I _can’t_ finish till you undo it, or give me a command to come on, I _don’t care,_ but I can’t— oh _fuck,_ Geralt, I’m going to— I’m—” 

Jaskier’s fingers tightened on Geralt’s hips, his hips stuttering and heat swelling just behind his cock— and then Geralt traced a sign in the air just off the tree trunk and gasped, “ _Don’t come._ ” 

And then… and then nothing. Jaskier still felt like he was about to come, he just… he just _didn’t._ He would have cursed a blue streak to make a sailor blush if he’d been at all capable of forming words; but all that erupted from his throat was a shocked, strangled cry of garbled nonsense as his body tried to make sense of the fact that he should be coming but _wasn’t._

His chest heaving and his head spinning, Jaskier finally got control of his hips again and set about fucking Geralt to within an inch of both their lives. His own inability to find release was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and he almost would have regretted asking for it if it hadn’t felt so incredibly _good_ to just… _keep going,_ not having to worry about slowing or backing off from the precipice of orgasm. Geralt seemed to have lost a little of the desperate edge, at least, panting and moaning wordlessly now while Jaskier hammered into him, still keeping his thrusts shallow but hard and steady. 

Unfortunately, what little lubrication spit had given was all but gone already, and Jaskier didn’t particularly fancy the idea of literally fucking himself raw, no matter _how_ good Geralt felt around him just now. Reaching around, he took Geralt in hand himself, pulling a broken, hoarse moan from the witcher’s throat. Geralt’s cock was hard as fucking _steel,_ hot to the touch, twitching and jumping in Jaskier’s grip as he stroked the witcher off until he came again— which took very, _very_ little time. 

Jaskier’s legs went weak again as Geralt shuddered and clenched on him with a gasp, spurting hot and sticky into his hand. He stopped again, briefly, hushing Geralt’s complaints in what he hoped was a soothing sort of tone while he pulled out just long enough to work his slippery hand over his cock; then pushed back in with a shuddering groan. With Geralt’s own come finally making things a little more slick, Jaskier was finally able to start fucking into him _properly,_ gasping as the taut, burning sensation of being about to climax immediately blossomed again without actually breaking. 

Geralt seemed entirely beyond words, a continual series of blissed-out, slushy moans punctuated by grunts and gasps tumbling from his lips; and while Jaskier had found his tongue again, he couldn’t manage to do much with it beyond babbling in a stunned sort of fashion about how incredibly good Geralt felt on his cock. He barely even noticed himself talking, driven nearly mindless with pleasure from being overstimulated yet not; kept constantly on the ragged edge of orgasm, driving into Geralt’s tight heat over and over without coming, not even when Geralt spasmed and clenched on him _again._

He didn’t know how long he lasted like that, but to a deeply dismayed groan from Geralt, Jaskier did finally have to stop again. His abs and his calves were burning to the point of cramping, his legs so exhausted he was starting to fear they might simply give way under him if he tried to keep going. 

“Geralt… I can’t… keep this up,” Jaskier panted. He was _soaked_ in sweat, leaning heavily against Geralt, his legs trembling and shaking as he tried to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, I… _aahhh—_ ” 

Geralt had pushed himself upright, straightening, and Jaskier’s breathless apology devolved into a loud gasp as he slipped out of Geralt’s tight heat. The air was shockingly cold on his throbbing cock, sending another jolt of ultimately unfulfilled _oh fuck I’m going to come_ flashing through him and leaving him shaking and lightheaded. 

“Lie down,” Geralt grated, clumsily kicking his boots off and yanking his trousers down. Somewhat gratifyingly, the witcher was breathing just as hard as Jaskier was, his hair utterly disheveled and his face tracked with sweat, his dripping, flushed cock jutting out in front of him and clearly still fully erect. He was still black-eyed from whatever potion it was he’d taken, too, though the spiderwebbed veins through his chalk-white skin were beginning to recede slightly as it wore off. 

Jaskier thumped gratefully down onto the ground on his arse with a croaking sigh, just barely having the forethought to fumble his doublet off and chuck it to one side before Geralt straddled him, pushing him down to sprawl onto his back in the dirt. The witcher had apparently not bothered to get undressed any more than was absolutely necessary, one boot still on and his leather trousers tangled around that knee. His shirt was absolutely filthy, soaked with sweat and streaked with come, and Jaskier wanted to see him naked anyway, so he stripped it off over Geralt’s head while Geralt lined himself up and sank down onto Jaskier’s cock with a guttural moan of unmistakable relief. 

With Geralt riding him hard from the off, Jaskier slipped into an almost trance-like state where the line between ecstasy and agony blurred, faded, and disappeared entirely. He couldn’t do anything but _feel,_ frozen in that moment of impending release, drowning in exquisite torment every time Geralt slammed down onto him; over and over and over again, the witcher’s face a picture of desperate bliss. Jaskier only realized he’d forgotten to push his own shirt out of the way when Geralt came all over it, but he didn’t care, just rucking it up his stomach so he could feel Geralt spilling onto his skin the next time. 

And there was a next time, at least two or three more of them; Jaskier had long since lost track of how many times Geralt actually came on him. At some point, when his muscles deigned to respond to him again, he reached up without thinking about it, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair to pull him down into a sloppy, breathless kiss. 

The instant their tongues met, Geralt _melted_ into it with a shudder and a whimpered groan, the tell-tale splashes of thick heat up Jaskier’s belly tearing an answering groan from his throat as well. His cock _throbbed_ and fire leapt in his core and he abruptly couldn’t take it anymore, nearly sobbing semi-coherent pleas against Geralt’s hot mouth. “Geralt— Geralt, undo it, please, I can’t, I need— I need to come, I can’t— I— oh gods, _please—_ ” 

Geralt growled something Jaskier couldn’t quite make out— and then Jaskier was coming so hard he thought he might pass out, burying his face into Geralt’s neck to muffle his ragged, wordless howls. He couldn’t breathe, or think, or move, his body rigid and his breath seized in his chest while he spilled out in seemingly endless waves, his cock pulsing inside Geralt’s tight heat with Geralt still moving on him and drawing out his release until he saw stars bursting in the creeping blackness of his vision. 

When Jaskier came back to himself, wrung out, shaking and twitching through the aftershocks with his balls _aching_ and his breath coming in huge, gasping sobs, Geralt was shuddering on top of him again, already trembling through yet another climax. 

The rest was even more of a blur after Jaskier’s sore, spent cock slipped out of Geralt along with a gush of hot come; a blur of wet tongues and kiss-swollen lips and sharp teeth on sweat-slick skin. Geralt stayed on top of him, reaching back to finger himself while Jaskier pumped his cock for him; but the thrusting of his hips finally, eventually, slowed and then stopped. 

Jaskier stilled his hand as well and they just stayed there in stunned silence, save for Geralt panting harshly into his neck; until Geralt slumped down onto his side with a fervently groaned, “ _Fuck._ ” 

_Fuck_ was right. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever _been_ so fucking filthy in his entire life; lying in the dirt soaked with sweat, his stomach and shirt dripping with Geralt’s come and what felt like his entire groin sticky with his own. 

He also didn’t think he’d ever _come_ so fucking hard in entire life, either. 

A creaky, breathless giggle rose in Jaskier’s chest and burst out before he could smother it, though his painfully dry, scratchy throat and the incredibly diverse assortment of intense aches and pains he’d accumulated helped him suppress his giddy, slightly hysterical mirth. He was fairly certain he hadn’t done himself any permanent damage, at least. 

“Are you… better?” he managed to croak, craning his neck to try and see Geralt’s face. Still sprawled half on top of him, Geralt grunted and didn’t look up. Jaskier tried to nudge him with the shoulder the witcher was still lying on. It was like trying to nudge a mountain. A sweaty, fucked-out, gorgeous mountain. “Geralt, I hate to kill the mood but I really do need you to tell me if you are in fact alright, or if you hate me now, or if you’re currently dying on me, because both of those really strike me as things I ought to made aware of at this point. Though I’m not entirely sure what I’d be _physically_ capable of doing about the dying part just now, in all honesty, but—” 

“ _Jaskier._ Stop. I don’t hate you and I’m not dying,” Geralt said, cutting him off with that familiar tone of bemused exasperation, muffled though it was into Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’m… Thank you. You didn’t have to do that for me. I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier snorted. “Of course, because I positively _hated_ every moment of it. I’m sure you could tell.” 

Geralt finally looked up at that, and Jaskier saw his lips twitch in the ghost of a smirk. His eyes were their usual golden-amber again, though Jaskier couldn’t quite recall when they’d reverted. 

“Hmm,” he grunted; but the line of tension in his shoulders vanished and his lips twitched again. 

Jaskier sighed happily and let his head fall back to the ground with a soft thud, thinking vaguely that if he wasn’t so horribly thirsty he’d be happy to just lie here like this for a day or possibly a week. 

“We ought to do this again sometime,” he commented sleepily, shifting a little so Geralt’s head was resting more comfortably on his shoulder. “Perhaps not with the whole incubus attack thing, but… well. It certainly made for a _far_ more interesting day than I anticipated this morning. It certainly has the makings of a thrilling tale. The prowess of the bard, taming the mighty witcher, and— would you happen to know what the plural of incubus is? Not that I have any idea how I’ll manage to _rhyme_ the word with anything, but it might help if I knew—” 

Jaskier hid his smile as Geralt’s head lifted off his shoulder, amber eyes fixing him with a slightly horrified stare. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Wouldn’t what?” Jaskier asked innocently, and Geralt’s eyes narrowed. 

“You are _not_ writing a song about this,” he said flatly. 

“Well perhaps you’d better find a way to keep me quiet for the moment, then,” Jaskier invited, purposely letting his gaze drift down to Geralt’s mouth and back up again. A curl of nervousness wound through his belly, but it was too late to take it back now. And in any case, Jaskier realized he needed to know, after all that, if there truly was… anything _else,_ if there could be anything more between them. Time seemed to stand agonizingly still, the moment stretching as Geralt gazed back at him in unreadable silence— 

And then the witcher leaned forward, slowly closing the tiny gap between them until their lips met once more in a soft, gentle, almost hesitant kiss that instantly washed away the tight nerves in Jaskier’s chest in a soaring bloom of happiness. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this whole fic was entirely an excuse to write about potioned-up Geralt absolutely desperate to get his brains fucked out and coming a *lot*. The Axii thing and the feels were something of an accidental bonus during the writing process because I have no control over what Jaskier does 😂


End file.
